


maybe i don't want heaven

by thegoldfinch



Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, i love tj a lot, i wrote this at 4am after a panic attack u know how it is, idk how to tag, sort of happy ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 01:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18063620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoldfinch/pseuds/thegoldfinch
Summary: TJ Kippen takes a look in the mirror. Takes place after 0313.





	maybe i don't want heaven

The cloth covering his bathroom mirror is old, worn and TJ had stared, through the open door, at the fraying stitches and faded shades of blue and white for well over an hour. He sits on his bed, knees to his chest, opposite it in silence and dread and a sadness overwhelms him. He doesn’t cry, though. Or rather, he can’t. His eyes hurt from crying already, and he fears that perhaps he’s run out of tears. He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to be upset, not after what he did to Cyrus. That was his fault, entirely. He doesn’t get to be upset. He doesn’t have that right. These are the things he has been telling himself for the past week, and it has become a mantra in his head. _It’s all your fault._

He takes in a shaky breath and rubs his hands over his face. The room becomes a little too small and the weight in his chest won’t subside. He grits his teeth and knows he can’t put it off any longer. He said he’d do it today, and he is not about to break any more promises. He gets up and walks into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He reaches over to the mirror and pulls off the cloth, letting it it drop to the floor. TJ stares at it for a moment, not being able to look up yet.

But then he does, and he sees himself. The mirror is dusty and dirt streaked and TJ studies every little flaw of it before he can bring himself to study the flaws of the person looking back at him. He hadn’t realised how hard it was going to be. He had read about it and watched films about and, in reality, he _knew_. But it was still so hard.

He hadn’t looked in the mirror since the morning of Costume Day, eight days, nine hours ago, and the face staring back at him now looks so different to the one he had seen then. His eyes are red from crying or lack of sleep. The green of his iris looks more like a dull grey, all the light gone. He closes and presses the heels of his hands to them, hoping to cool the inflammation a little. There is some form of instant relief but it fades quickly.

He opens his eyes again, and a strangled, bitter laugh bubbles up in his throat. “This is insane,” he says to himself. He runs a hand through his hair, untangling the slightly greasy locks. He hasn’t showered in three days, and even then, it was only because his sister had locked him in the bathroom, all but forcing him to wash himself. He feels disgusting, but what’s there to do? He can barely get up most of the time.

He’s fucking useless at this point. He’s missed two basketball practices, and the first game of the season, and the team won without him. No one needs him anymore. Classic TJ. Anything good, he just has to ruin it. He grips the sides of the sink and looks into the drain for a moment, and then looks up again.

He checks the clock on the wall. It’s been 14 minutes since he first looked in the mirror. This is going to take a long time. He itches with the urge to just walk out of the room and waste another day on doing nothing, but he doesn’t. His phone is on his bed, and he doesn’t want to get it in case he does something impulsive. He tries not to think of the 4 messages typed out in his note’s app. One, 156 words, the others all less than 10. _I miss you. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix this._

TJ hisses a breath through his teeth, like the thought had scalded him, and ignores everything else until he just says it. Now. It has to be now. He looks into the mirror, straight into his eyes and wonders if he can pick himself apart from the inside. Figure out what makes him tick. Why he can’t just _be normal._ He grits his teeth and pictures the words in his head, pictures him saying it, pictures himself with a boy, with Cyrus, and for a moment, a split second, the weight in his chest disappears. He opens his mouth.

And nothing comes out.

Everything comes crashing down at once. He lurches for the toilet and retches into it. There is nothing in his stomach, so he coughs up bile, the acid corroding his insides. His eyes burn, and his ribs ache, and can taste the bile in his throat. Everything hurts and he is broken and there is nothing he can do about it.

He finally stops heaving, and rests his forehead on his forearm on top of the toilet seat. He shuts his eyes and ignores the fact that his face is in a toilet full of puke, because he can’t move. His legs have shut down, and he’s shaking. He can’t move and he certainly can’t support his own weight. So he sits. His insides are still on fire, and God, he hadn’t realised it would be this bad. He thought he could just say it. Just say it and move on. Because it’s easy. Isn’t it?

“I can’t,” he whispers to himself, voice hoarse and strained, “I can’t do it.”

Then the tears come. They come in floods. He is a snotty, sobbing, tired mess, and he _can’t do it._ He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, and at some point, his sobs become choked laughs that grate on his own ears and he forces himself to stop.

He slumps back against the wall and reaches up to flush the toilet. He knocks his head back a little too hard and his ears start to ring. He shuts his eyes and breathes slowly. In and out, 3-7-5, like Amber had taught him. Maybe it really does help, maybe he needs it to help so badly he tricks himself into it. But his heart slows and his head doesn’t feel too full anymore.

He thinks about Cyrus, because there’s nothing else he wants to think about. As he does, recounting every meeting, every touch, every word between them, he remembers something.

_“There is nothing wrong with you.”_

The words echo in his head, and TJ can feel his resolve building up again steadily. So Cyrus was talking about his dyscalculia, but TJ needs something to ground him, and this will do just fine. If Cyrus was here, if Cyrus didn’t hate him, he would've said something similar. _But he isn’t, and he does, and it’s your fault._

TJ gets up, legs still wobbly, but better, and ignores the doubt brewing in his stomach. Would Cyrus care if --no, _when_ \-- TJ told him? Would Cyrus really say there is nothing wrong with him? TJ shakes his head to get rid of the thoughts. He knows Cyrus. He knows Cyrus and Cyrus would never hate him for that.

He stands firmly in front of the mirror and winces at his sticky, tear stained face. He rests his hands on the sides of the sink, using it to support his weight, and he tries again.

“I'm…” he pauses, and swallows. His mouth is impossibly dry, but he tries again. Different approach, “I like…”  

Anger builds up inside him and he slaps the sides of the sink. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, willing himself to stay calm, “ _Fuck_.”

He’s shaking now but he just repeats Cyrus’s words in his head. He looks at the mirror again, and in a voice so quiet, he can barely hear it himself, he says it. He says “I like boys.”

As the words leave his lips, the tightness in his chest loosens a little and a flutter of hope and relief replaces it. He brings his hand up to his mouth and tentatively lets his fingers rest there. He sniffles quietly and a tear rolls down his cheek.

And maybe it’s not what he set out to do, to say, but it’s a start. And, for once, TJ decides that it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> okay cool thanks for reading. constructive criticism is always appreciated but please bear in my mind that this is my first ever fic ever.


End file.
